In Feverier, whan the frosty moone Was horned, ful of Phebus firy lyght, And that she gan to reyse her streames sone, Saynt Valentyne, upon thy blisful nyght Of dutie whan glad is every wight, And foules chese, to voyde her olde sorowe, Everyche his make, upon the next morowe, The same tyme, I herde a larke synge Ful lustely, agayne the morowe...Learn More